Pain. All I remember is an agonizing burn, increasing with each strike as I begged it to stop. I remember screams ripping form my throat along with blood. I remember each and every crack of the whip, and how I would tense at each blow. But that was in the past.

It would all end, because I wanted it to. All everyone sees is the brave boy, the one who so altruistically saved the wizarding world from the terror that threatened it. The same child who defeated Voldemort so many times, who slew the mighty basilisk and saved a little girl from a fate unwarranted by any action. But that was all they saw.

They never saw the scars on my body, or the wince as I stepped onto the express. They chose to never see me go to the washroom, how I came back with new clothes and glamours. I knew that some of them noticed, they were to observant not to. It was only that they chose to believe it not to be true, or to have been mistaken, that the abuse had never been discovered.

I had decided that I was sick of it, all the pretending, all of the pain. I didn't care about the bloody world, Voldemort, or anyone else. They let me suffer so they could have their hero. Now they would lose him, and Voldemort would win. You know what? Good for him. He worked so hard to fix everything, and it doesn't affect me anyways.

So here I was my wand's twin pointed at me, my knees on the ground. And begging him to kill me, pleading with the dark lord to end my suffering. I watched as his face darkened at my request, how his eyes flickered back and forth from joy to pity. I watched his head nod in acceptance. I watched as a light the same color as my eyes come towards me, as it impacted me. I felt my soul break from my body, and as the dark lord bowed his head to me in respect.

I couldn't bring myself to care, because finally I was in control of my own fate. Finally, I was free.


When the wizarding world found their hero's body in front of the ministry, few realized what had happened. His skin was a pale blue, his once pained emerald eyes closed peacefully. His body was respected, lain in a casket atop a bed of silk. He was adorned in beautiful robes, dressed like royalty.

No one noticed to pale man in the back of the crowd during the press conference. The minister milked this hero's death claiming it to be "One of the saddest moments in our history, a hero lost." No one mentioned the real Harry, a sad child beneath a heroic fa├žade.

The pale man in the back did, he remembered the green eyed boy's pleading. How his eyes turned up in hope, the way his hands shook, the relieved expression when he agreed to kill him. No, not kill him. The pale man didn't kill him, he saved him. He let his wish come true, he let Harry Potter move on to a better life, a life without pain, filled to the brim with the utmost happiness. Harry Potter was saved, and the most evil man the wizarding world had ever seen, feared by everyone, respected by everyone, set him free.